"His sword?"
"Yes!"
"For what purpose?"
"That ye shall ken anon," replied the boy with flashing eyes and clenched hands.
"Ye have the dour devilish look o' that termagant Kennedy, your mother, in ye, lad. You are the widow's son Willie, I suppose?"
"I am. Your insolent grooms here ken me weel; and better shall they ken me ere this death feud be stanched! But the sword, Claude Hamilton of Preston!—I say, my father's sword!"
"But what want ye with it, loon?"
"To stab you to the heart, when the time comes," responded the fearless boy.
"By my faith! this little devil takes fire like the match of an arquebuse!" growled the tall, grim laird.
"My father's sword, foul riever!" continued Willie, stamping his foot.